


Through His Stomach...And Wallet

by ArtHistory



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bookstores, M/M, Occult, Plotty, Victorian, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25206883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtHistory/pseuds/ArtHistory
Summary: Guillame Saint-Michel is smitten with the local antique dealer. Artemis, said occultist bookseller, is not as smitten. But he does enjoy cash, and sweets.Maybe a little too much.Artemis based on: https://twitter.com/mistwilm/status/1280564241808982017
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 9
Kudos: 62





	Through His Stomach...And Wallet

The tome slid into the shelf as if its neighbors had shifted to make room for it.

Artemis inhaled, allowing a soft smile gracing his lips.

There was something intoxicating about the rich scent of the leather-bound book, especially when combined with the dark and mystical energies thar seemed to permeate his shop - a point of pride for the antique shop owner. His sole employer and employee? Himself. And nothing could be better than that. There was no one’s customer better than his own, and to have such peace, such silence in his shop, where he could attune himself to the soft, delicate sounds of mystical energies swirling-

**DING**

Artemis scowled.

“Ah...a customer-”  
‘Artemis! My dear friend!” The rich, low voice boomed from the front of the shop.

“Ugh” Artemis scowled deeper, wincing as the man undid his dark cloak and hat, resting them upon the jet-black rack near the entrance. Artemis had been so taken aback the first time the well-suited man had entered his shop, a flurry of moving hands, massive grins, and deep, unabashed laughs at his own jokes that Artemis hadn’t a moment to tell the gentleman the hat rack was a purchasable item, not a functional piece.

Artemis regretted this each and every time the man visited.

Which had evolved to daily.

“Guillame. Hello.” Artemis said, his lips pulling back into a smile so forced his jaw already ached. Ached, at least, until Guillame pulled out the bedrock of their relationship - a large, square, bakery box. And his wallet.

The way the corner of Artemis eyes crinkled as he smiled, genuinely now, caused Guillame’s heart to  **thump** . Thump just as hard, and with just as much unadulterated affection, as the first time he’d laid eyes on the dark-haired antique dealer.

He’d spotted Artemis through the glass of the window. Standing at the tell, his mid-length, raven-black hair falling over his ears and down the nape of his neck, his arched eyebrows only outdone in their ferocity by the glass-cutting edges of his cheekbones. Guillame’s heart fluttered. He swore he floated past the gas lamps lighting up the entrance to the shop, through its door, and schmoozed his way past the exciting customer to lean decadently over the counter, face in his heads.

“Well hellooooo there, handsome.” Guillame smiled, showing off his dazzlingly white teeth, blue eyes shining, dark brows giving a waffle as Artemis’ brows raised in a mixture of disgust, horror, and (Guillame swore) a small amount of  _ amusement _ . 

“May I help you?” Artemis said, the tone of his voice dry enough to chap Guillame’s plump lips. 

“You certainly may…” Guillame paused, leaning his suited elbow onto the counter, popping his hip out behind him, blinking over long lashes up at the gothic waif, waiting for-

“Artemis.” Artemis said, through a gritted smile, “How may I help you, Mr.-“

“Saint-Michel. Guillame Saint-Michel, purveyor of rare books, which I believe you are  **flush** with.” Guillame said, “In fact, please point me in the direction of your  **most expensive** tome. I have the feeling we might make each other  **very happy** .” He flirted, straightening and extending his arm towards a line of bookshelves in the shop, letting Artemis lead the way of only to gaze down upon...oh...a rather small but still delightfully  **round** ass.

Artemis chose a book.

Guillame purchased it, only flinching at the price for half-a-second before his money was in the till.

And so a pattern emerged.

Several times a week, Guillame would stop by, browse tomes until he spotted something he might be able to sell, spend an enormous amount of money on said tome, and then leave, Artemis’ icy demeanor showing not a single crack. This would be issue for men without the maddening self-confidence Guillame possessed, but the true issue lies with the titles themselves. Guillame was turning a profit, he always did. No, it was the fact that-

The books were incredibly cursed.

The first night he’d arrive back at his manor house near the city’s park, Guillame had placed the time Artemis had sold him on his bookshelf only for each and every novel in his personal collection to start  **shrieking** . Wailing with unabashed horror, as if each and every one of their characters were being brutally murdered. The next book released a swarm of bats when Guillame has thought to open it in his carriage ride home. The third had sprouted teeth and nearly taken off the bookseller’s hand.

It was all worth it, given that Artemis had at least begun to ask him about his business, and even less occasionally his day. Guillame needed more time to warm Artemis up before he actually attempted to ask the man out. But stopping by without reason was rude, absurdly so, even by otherwise annoying playboy standard. 

And then, luck struck.

“Artemis, my dear friend.” Guillame has smiled, gliding through the door, undoing his cloak, tossing it over the coatrack, and moving to the counter - this time with a box.

“What is-“

Guillame opened it, swiftly, revealing a deliciously fragrant, shining cake. Black as night, kissed with cream and raspberries in such a way that it almost looked bloody.

“I saw it in the window of the bakery on 5th, and couldn’t help but think of you. With your beautiful, dark hair, the rich aura of your shop, I thought the cake would fit right in.” Guillame said, laying it on as thick as he could.

“I...thank you, Guillame.” Artemis said.

“Of course!” Guillame cheered, then turned, “Well, I really must be off! Have a delightful day, my dear.” 

Artemis blinked, mouth opening, closing. How odd. A...completely tolerable interaction with Guillame.

He only investigated the cake after the sop closed for the evening. And  **oof** . Guillame was a loud mouth, but gods, if he didn’t have impeccable taste.

Artemis sliced the smallest sliver, which soon became a slice, which soon became the skeletal salesman eagerly bringing fork to cake until the box sat empty. He laid back with a belch, hands resting on his distended middle, waistcoat straining around the churning, gurgling mound of sugar beneath it. 

Artemis flushed. He’d really gone overboard. He flushed deeper as he caught his red-faced, panting form in the mirror, a heat building below the queasiness of his gut. Just a treat, nothing to worry about.

And then Guillame stopped by with a blackberry tart.

And then a treacle pie.

And then a platter of dark chocolate cookies.

And Artemis felt his svelte frame balloon.

Bony arms padded out. His tight little arse bubbled to round, full cheeks above thick thighs that were on the verge of snogging. His furious cheekbones vanished into a sea of warm, sweet apple cheeks, jawline rounding out to make him look less cherubic, and more like some dark god of gluttony. But the biggest change? Artemis’ once hollow belly has bloated, swelled, bloomed into a decadent mountain of delicious vanilla, straining his waistcoats to the point of bursting, eagerly flopping over his belt, and consistently knocking over the various, occult creations he’d so carefully glided about before Guillame’s first visit.

And now they stood, Guillame holding out a box - the cake that had started it all.

And Artemis, fattened with affection from so desperate to please him, couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and taking it.

“Artemis” Guillame said, gazing over the antique dealers wide, deliciously plump form, “I was wondering…”

“Might you be interested in dinner?”


End file.
